


Babel

by cjmarlowe



Category: Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Paralympics, Sexual Fantasy, Yuletide 2012, Yuletide Treat, london 2012, quadriplegic protagonist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevor never did really do casual sex anyway, even before he was involved; the logistics are just too tricky for someone who doesn't know him very well, and honestly, it always gets better with experimentation and practice anyway which you just don't get with a one night stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eudaimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/gifts).



Trevor wonders sometimes why it is that people seem to think that he's deaf or otherwise unable to understand them. Like when he's sitting eating his lunch someplace completely ordinary like the food court at the mall and he'll hear someone say, well within earshot of him, "Too bad he's in that chair." He rolls his eyes—if they don't care if he can hear them, he doesn't care if they can see him—and lets it roll off his back. 

He knows he's good looking, and he knows that when they say that they mean it's too bad for _them_ he's in the chair, that they'd totally try to hook up with him without it, and not too bad for _him_ he's in the chair, for about a hundred more reasons that they don't actually care about, and frankly he wouldn't want them to. It used to bother him more than it does now. Now he knows that, actually, he's dodging a bullet there.

He thinks he's thinking about that now because he's sitting in the food hall in Athletes' Village with his teammates, which is more like a mall food court than anybody wants to actually admit, and nobody is saying anything like that. Nobody is going to, either.

"Fuck you," Trav is saying, incongruously, throwing a piece of bread across the table.

Trevor isn't sure who he was fuck-you-ing or why, but he's always been the guy who sits there and figures it out for himself instead of the guy who demands all attention be on him when he asks about something he should've been paying attention to in the first place. Only this time he's distracted before he can go further than identify the flying food, even when Pico starts banging on the table for some ungodly reason probably related to someone being fucked.

"Yeah, she's hot," Trav says in his ear, but Trevor isn't looking at the Swedish swimmer walking by their table. Not when the face of the games has just walked in, managing not to look like a tool even though he left his sunglasses on indoors. Which is never cool. "Careful, you're a taken man."

Some people told him, back before he had much experience with it himself, that the line between fantasy and infidelity gets a little more complicated when a fair amount of your sex life happens inside your head, but it seems pretty straightforward to him: if you're doing it by yourself, it's okay; if you're doing it with another person, you've crossed that line. 

And everything that's happening right now is strictly in the privacy of his own head.

Trevor never did really do casual sex anyway, even before he was involved; the logistics are just too tricky for someone who doesn't know him very well, and honestly, it always gets better with experimentation and practice anyway which you just don't get with a one night stand. (Though he won't say he _never_ did it; there are a couple of very fond—and one not-so-fond—memories there.) When he's talking about sex to virtual strangers, sometimes it's like he's speaking a completely different language. And if here at the Games it would be a little easier, it's on the other side of commitment for him now anyway.

"Am I right?" says Trav and Trevor just nods his head, sure, whatever. "See, I'm totally right, and you're an asshole."

Look, Oscar Pistorius is a good-looking man. Great smile. Amazing abs. Thighs Trevor kind of wants to sink his teeth into, trace muscles with his tongue. If he wants to sit there with his teammates and imagine taking Oscar's clothes off, he's going to do that. His girlfriend is totally down with fantasy, after all; whatever turns them on, they go with it.

"Earth to Trevor," says someone, not Trav this time, and he bats them away and takes a bite of his sandwich to at least be doing something that they can't give him shit about. "Someone's in a mood."

"He's focusing," says Trav. "He's all _method_ or something."

"I thought that was just for actors."

Trevor rolls his eyes and watches as Oscar takes off his sunglasses, pulls his shirt from the waistband of his shorts and rubs his hand over his abdomen. Who even does that in real life? And in the middle of a glorified cafeteria where everyone is more interested in their dinner than in his body.

Except Trevor is barely picking at his sandwich, so maybe Oscar is on to something. Oscar's strong enough to lift him, which is something that Trevor thinks about. Strong enough to lift him and _hold_ him there and do unspeakable things to his body. Trevor feels a tingling at the back of his neck and is grateful, as he is more often than people would probably guess, that his thoughts aren't reflected in any other part of his body. He checked.

People are so careful with Trevor's body, which Trevor himself is certainly _not_ since he flings himself at other people professionally. But he can imagine that Oscar wouldn't be, and Trevor can do a whole lot of things with his upper body that he bets Oscar hasn't even imagined.

"Just don't jump her in the middle of the food hall," says Trav, loud enough for everyone else to hear this time. "Because you'd totally never get away before security was all over you both."

Trevor thanks murderball for making people look at him for what he _can_ do and not what he _can't_ —and yes, it's murderball, it will always be murderball. He gets why people don't call it that, officially, but it's such an incredibly in-your-face, fuck-you name for a sport played by quads that they all still use it.

It taught him to be a bit more fuck-you about other things in his life too.

"Fuck you," he says, and grins at him and takes a chip from Zak's plate. "I'm faster than any of you losers."

It's true, too, and Trav just laughs and elbows him and Trevor takes one last look at Oscar as he walks away. The view from this angle is pretty good, too.


End file.
